


hangnail

by t4tterdemalion



Category: Nailbiter (Comics)
Genre: M/M, PWP, People aka Finch enjoy it, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Serial Killers, Shameless Smut, Warren flirts with people he isn't supposed to, second fic in the tag babey, warren more like whoren
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:42:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24714034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t4tterdemalion/pseuds/t4tterdemalion
Summary: The look in his eyes is like the liquid blue flame that lurks on the stovetops of every household waiting for someone to bend too close and catch themselves on fire.Finch feels like he might be in more danger than he knows.
Relationships: Nicholas Finch/Edward "Nailbiter" Warren





	hangnail

**Author's Note:**

> oh yeah this will probably make way more sense if you read the first volume of nailbiter first
> 
> and then read the rest of them because the series is really good

He hadn't come to this fucking town for this.

Finch had not come to this hellish town to be rained on non-stop, he hadn't come to be dragged into some serial killer revival crossover after school special bullshit, and most of all he hadn't come to stand on the Nailbiter's front steps and look up at him in the light of his kitchen with the scent of rain and metal tangy in the air and have his brain tell him, _hey, you know the serial killer standing in front of you who may or may not have killed your best friend, he's kinda pretty._

Nope. Not happening.

Warren, because that's his name, who could forget, is all hooded eyes and suspicious cryptic bullshit, and apparently a cattle butcher in his spare time, which is absolutely believable.

He's also that specific kind of irritating that has always gotten right under Finch's skin, where he's laughing at something no one else can spot. Finch watches Warren tease the chief like they're still high school sweethearts, and has to hide a smile when she calls him a dick, regardless of the waves of crazy coming off the guy.

But then he has to step up, get serious and ask Warren some questions about Carroll, and that irritation builds far too quickly into anger. Warren has the nerve to be indignant about how he never _ate_ people, and certainly not Carroll, it was the _nails_ he was into, and then he leans into Finch's space, long fingers suddenly brushing the back of his hand. "You have nice nails, Agent Finch," he murmurs, low and somehow intimate. "Anyone ever told you that?"

A hot bubble of rage has been rising in his gut for a while, and it feels good to let some of it out by punching Warren through a wall.

That hot feeling stays with him, so he crouches in the mud and pulls Warren half up by his hair. "You're a fucking waste of my breath and my time. Touch me again, I'll feed you your _own_ nails."

"Damn, you've got a temper," he hears the sheriff say behind him, utterly nonchalant.

Warren meets his eyes, and Finch is frozen for an instant against all his instincts. "Yeah," he breathes, quiet enough Finch can barely hear it. "I like it."

Finch drops him like he's been burned, standing and wiping his hand off on his jeans. The chief is already starting her car, and he hears the crackle of radio static.

"We've got a call," she says as he approaches. "Fire, back in town."

"Shit," he growls, getting in and slamming the door shut. "Sorry, wasting time."

"Warren has always been a mouthy little shit. And hey, if anyone asks? I didn't see anything."

It's dark in the car, and Finch is grateful for the cover as he coughs and surreptitiously adjusts himself, that stubborn heat lingering in the pit of his stomach. He looks back once as they peel out.

Warren is standing in the doorway to the barn, dark splashes of mud looking almost like blood splatter. The look in his eyes is like the liquid blue flame that lurks on the stovetops of every household waiting for someone to bend too close and catch themselves on fire.

Finch feels like he might be in more danger than he knows.

•••••

Some rotten rich kid has been outright crucified on that creepy guy's storefront, and the sheriff is dealing with the fallout while Finch stands by, still lost in his own head with Warren smirking and looking up at him through mud with those burning clear eyes.

He's shaken out of his daze by a pudgy officer running up to the police barriers and calling to the sheriff. She sends Finch a pleading glance and he waves her off and heads over.

"What's going on, officer?"

He's panting, hands on his knees, but he manages to puff out, "They got wind of the kid's fingers.... they're gonna hang him!"

A sudden flash of panic hits him right between the eyes and passes like a cramp. He turns steadily on his heel and yells to the sheriff. "Sheriff, it's Warren!"

Her eyes find him through a crowd of angry townsfolk. She hesitates, then digs in her pocket. "Go!" She yells back, throwing him her car keys.

Finch snatches them out of the air and full-on runs to her squad car. He remembers seeing a large tree with a low hanging branch somewhere along the way to Warren's house.

The road is slick from the recent rain, and Finch's knuckles are pale on the wheel as the headlights split the darkness. He heads off-road, that tree looming up before him. He sees the mob, he sees Warren standing with his hands open, not fighting it, the noose around his neck. He doesn't have time to reach for a weapon, he doesn't have authority in this town, but what he does have is a little bit of dumb and a little bit of crazy, so the mob yanks on the rope, Warren goes up, scrabbling at his neck, and Finch floors it.

The tree shudders and creaks when he hits it, and chunks of mud fly into the air as the roots come up. Hillbillies and white trash scatter as the tree falls, and Warren is in the mud again, landing hard on his side.

Finch is out of the car, leaving the headlights on and halfway to Warren before he can stop himself, forcing his feet to still about three feet away, forcing his face blank. He wills himself not to let that heat show, looking at Warren all disheveled and coughing, rubbing at his neck where there's sure to be bruises on that pale, smooth skin.

Warren looks up at him from his knees and Finch is clenching his jaw so hard his teeth squeak together at the expression on Warren's face. His eyes are wide and his mouth is wet, the noose still around his neck, and the fire is bright as he reaches out to touch the toe of Finch's boot. Suddenly he's practically climbing Finch's legs, shoving at him to get him moving five stumbling steps into the shadows of the fallen tree. Wet foliage pokes at Finch's ears and around his head as Warren sinks between his legs, those long fingers scrabbling at his belt buckle.

"Let me suck you off," Warren breathes, blue eyes fixed on Finch's face, the belt clinking and leather sliding apart. Finch lets out some small involuntary noise like a gasp, and Warren almost whines, licking his lips like he can't stand it, like he needs Finch, like he's just greedy for the taste of him. Finch should knee him in the jaw, leave him here facedown in the mud, drive away and never look back.

The heat of Warren's breath is incredible, making him twitch through the fabric of his boxers as Warren nuzzles at the hard line of his cock. "Please," he pants, "I swear I won't bite."

"I can't trust you," Finch manages, his voice far too rough, groping behind him to find support on a tree limb with one hand.

"Finch—" both their hands tugging at the fabric of his boxers, "just let me—" Warren mouthing at the tip, "suck you off—" and Finch almost growls deep in his throat as Warren swallows him down, his hand fisting in fine, ash blond hair and pulling hard. Warren moans around him, the vibration flashing up his spine, making Finch grit his teeth and tug Warren closer, forcing the last inch or so into his mouth. He makes some choked noise and his nails dig into Finch's thighs, spit dripping from the corners of his lips. Warren's eyes are half open and he swallows once, twice, watching Finch's expression, calculating his reactions. He's still lucid, not completely the needy wreck Finch wants him to be, and that's both dangerous and dissatisfying.

Something is scratching his wrist where he's supporting himself on the tree, and he catches at it, following it's length until his hand lays right at the knot of Warren's noose. Finch considers, thinks about Warren's wide eyes, his desperation, and wraps the rope twice around his hand.

He pulls steadily, tightening the noose around Warren's neck at the same time that he shifts his grip on Warren's hair to the back of his head. Warren's eyes fly wide for a split second as the rope pulls taut around his neck and Finch fucks into his throat, and then his eyes snap shut as he goes limp, shuddering and drooling and whimpering in little cut-off bursts.

Finch rakes his fingers through Warren's hair and takes exactly what he wants out of the needy thing at his feet, fucking his mouth sloppy and rough, as a cold drizzle falls on them both under the leaves, and Finch yanks on the rope one last time as he comes down Warren's throat with a sudden " _Fuck_."

Warren swallows every last drop as Finch lets go of the rope, licks and mouths at his cock until it's shining clean with spit.

Finch's eyes are closed, and he forces them open, has to stay awake and aware, has to deal with what he's done.

He hears a rustle of fabric and a low gasp, and looks down at Warren, still in the mud at his feet, sees him with his fly open and his boxers shoved down, the throbbing red of his cock in his long-fingered hand. He's still got one hand twisted into the denim of Finch's jeans, his eyes closed and his hips moving frantically, helplessly. He opens his eyes, sees Finch watching, opens his mouth to say something.

Finch is down and on him before Warren can speak, knocking his hand away and gripping his dick hard enough to hurt, tugging the noose off with his other hand. "Oh— _shit,_ " Warren groans, his hands dropping to his sides, head falling forward, Finch biting at the ring of bruises and scratches around his neck. He's so goddamn _pretty_ when he's fucked up, mud and spit and bruises all over him, strands of his hair falling into his face, harsh whines and curses spilling from his lips as he shakes apart under Finch's hands.

Warren sags a little, and Finch pets him, smoothing firm hands over his shoulders, his back, down his chest to his thighs before he realizes what he's doing. Warren relaxes under his touch though, even dares to slump against his chest, and Finch allows it. He knows it might trigger something horrible if he pulls away so soon after such a vulnerable event. After a minute or so, Warren tilts his head up and licks at Finch's mouth. Finch hides his shiver and licks back, and they sort-of kiss for a brief moment.

Warren's lips curve suddenly against his and Finch feels the sharp pain of teeth on the tip of his tongue.

"Fuck!" Finch spits, turning his head away as the taste of copper fills his mouth.

Warren laughs, chases him, sucks the blood from his lips and teeth. "Does everything about you taste good?"

"Not my nails," Finch says, half-joking, all his composure gone, still kneeling on the ground in the mud and the rain like an idiot, an idiot thinking with his dick, god what is wrong with him holy shit this is the worst thing he's ever done—

Warren's hands are cool and damp as he tucks Finch's cock back into his boxers, fixes his fly. He's calm and collected, even with rope burn and bite marks on his neck, but those gas-flame eyes still send sparks through Finch's blood.

He stands, pulls off his shirt, wipes the come off his stomach.

Finch stands, sways a little, his exhaustion suddenly catching up with him. "Come down to the station with me."

"Why?"

"So we can have a goddamn tea party, what the hell do you think? It's for your protection against further lynch mobs."

Warren laughs again. "I'll come quietly."

"You weren't quiet before," Finch says half under his breath, then immediately kicks himself. He thinks he catches Warren hiding a smirk as they head toward the car.

If they end up ruining the upholstery, he doesn't know what he's going to say to anyone. He doesn't even know what to say to himself. He definitely doesn't know what to say to Warren, who sits sideways and shirtless in the backseat and hums Queen.

He should have just shot himself.

When they're close to the edge of the woods, Warren leans over the back of his seat and sucks a mark into the back of his neck. Finch lets him, since it's near impossible to see any marks on his dark skin, and he maybe gets distracted and almost hits another tree. Warren laughs. They almost get into a goddamn fist fight in the car. Finch gets out and handcuffs him and watches his dilated pupils in the rearview mirror all the way to the station.

Finch didn't come to this fucking town for this, but this is what he's got.

It's probably one of the worst things that's ever happened to him.

**Author's Note:**

> hoo wee this is the first fic i ever felt proud of and you know what i am still proud of it to this day  
> there may be no demand and no fandom but this little smutlet is pretty damn alright
> 
> there's not a lot of people that will ever read this, so if you do.....  
> tell me something in the comments. leave it here for me to find.   
> it doesn't have to be about the story.   
> it just has to be real.


End file.
